


Tigerheart

by Shadaras



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wuxia, Fluff, Healing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/pseuds/Shadaras
Summary: Baze and Chirrut are the last survivors of their temple. While hiding in the forest on their way to safety, Chirrut finds an injured tiger.
Relationships: Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	Tigerheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



“Chirrut, O golden light of my soul,” Baze said slowly, trying to understand the scene before him. “You _are_ aware that’s a tiger? And that it’s bleeding all over you?”

“Shhh.” Chirrut didn’t even look at him, not that it mattered when his eyes saw nothing but soul-light regardless. “If you wake her, all my work will be for naught.”

Baze crouched into the brush, considering that. He’d followed Chirrut’s trail from their camp, taking in the elegantly bent branches and occasional drops of blood with confusion and concern. He’d been out hunting to make sure they had enough food to last until they got to another temple, one that would hopefully be a safe haven in these troubled times, and returning to see Chirrut missing and _blood_ smeared on trees—

Well, he’d feared the worst.

The idea that Chirrut had somehow been accosted by an injured tiger and then stumbled into the woods to help it—help _her_ , he corrected himself—wasn’t particularly strange so much frustrating. More quietly, he said, “You could have left a note.”

“Me, write?” Chirrut said guilelessly. “Everyone knows I’m blind.”

He was, but that had never stopped him. Not from fighting (his staff, Baze saw with relief, was tucked at his side and not blocked by the tiger’s slow-breathing body), nor from learning how to write by precise muscle memory honed through years of badgering people (mostly Baze) into helping him learn. Baze just sighed, and kept himself calm as he studied the tiger. “Do you need anything?” he asked, because her leg was mangled and he really wasn’t sure what Chirrut’s intent was—or, he knew what Chirrut’s intent was, but didn’t know how he planned to accomplish it.

Chirrut shook his head. “It’s not broken. I just needed a space conducive to healing, which our camp—while lovely, and certainly arranged perfectly for shelter—most assuredly was not.”

Baze grunted. He’d set up the camp according to all the principles of the Whills, but Chirrut had always studied deeper mysteries than he’d cared for. He’d excelled at the principles of war, and dedicated himself to the guardianship of the temple and its secrets, but Chirrut was the one who had learned them all and taken them into himself. When the Empire came to their temple, seeking their treasures, Chirrut had been the only treasure Baze could protect.

He considered it worthwhile, even if it meant losing the deep crystal caverns where the memories of their ancestors had been stored. The living came first, now and always, no matter what other paths (like the Jedi and their swords flaring with the storied spirits of their ancestors long cultivated into those self-same crystals) might say. Baze knew the Jedi had a wider and brighter reputation, with their swords and their steel-bright cores, but he’d thought the Jedi deluded themselves into thinking that the path of the Whills was lesser simply because it focused on the less-showy internal arts.

Case in point, Chirrut’s hands stroking along the tiger’s sunset pelt, calming it deeper into sleep. He obviously didn’t care about the blood drying on his hands or staining his robes; right now, deep in the trance as he was, Baze wasn’t even sure he noticed them. He never asked Chirrut about the mysteries; it wasn’t worth gaining knowledge he couldn’t use but which—if he said the wrong thing at the wrong time—might give them away.

(Baze cared about the stains even if Chirrut didn’t, though. He’d inevitably need to scour them out of Chirrut’s robes so that the next village they reached didn’t shut them out entirely. In some ways he enjoyed the process of doing their laundry; they didn’t have spare robes, so it inevitably meant Chirrut would plaster himself along Baze’s back, wearing his brightest smile and claiming it was just for warmth. Baze would play along, trying to do his work even as Chirrut’s hands ran along the curves and scars of his body and his mouth pressed kisses into every aching joint and made the washing take hours longer than it could.)

Beneath Chirrut’s graceful fingers (which Baze wished had never known such a task), the bleeding slowed, then stopped. Baze watched with half his attention, the rest devoted to ensuring that nobody came across them in this secluded corner of forest. He didn’t think there were any Imperial agents here, but one could never be too careful—especially not when displaying the most sacred mystery, that of healing.

The tiger’s paw stretched out, muscles rippling and claws piercing the air right next to Chirrut’s leg. Baze tensed, but didn’t move, and the tiger relaxed again. Chirrut hadn’t even flinched. But his hands came to rest on the tiger’s now-healed skin, and his body slowly toppled forward onto her peaceful form.

Baze did not jump up, but it was a close thing.

If he ignored the part of himself screaming about the dangers of wild tigers, it was a beautiful tableau (except for the blood): A full-grown tiger sprawled peacefully on the ground, and a slender man curled against her shoulder, looking for all the world like her child.

Baze carefully inscribed the image into his memory, then slowly stood up and paced around the edge of the small clearing until he could touch Chirrut’s ankle. “My love,” he said, because there was nobody to hear but them. “I know this takes much out of you, but this is not our space to rest.”

Chirrut sighed, but his eyes cracked open. “My heart,” he said, mournful but not resistant, “could you not give me even one minute of peace?”

“You had your minute,” Baze pointed out as Chirrut carefully sat up. “You just wanted to spend enough time to burn a handful of incense sticks down to ash.”

“Her heartbeat is so slow and powerful,” Chirrut said, one hand gripping his staff and the other taking Baze’s own. Baze pulled him to his feet and allowed Chirrut to come to rest upon his own chest; he would need to wash both their robes, come morning, but that was no more difficult than washing Chirrut’s on their own. “Much like yours, when you sleep.”

Baze kissed Chirrut’s forehead. “Come, my dear. Let me be your tiger, then, and you can sleep on my chest as you recover.”

Chirrut looked up at him with the fondest smile. “You have the best ideas.”

“I try,” Baze said, laughing softly as they began walking back to camp. “I try.”


End file.
